


Timely Encounter

by Goldy



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Firefly
Genre: Angst, Crack, Crossover, F/M, Fluff, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-24
Updated: 2009-07-24
Packaged: 2017-12-21 02:03:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/894512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goldy/pseuds/Goldy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mal and Ten meet in a bar. There is drinking. There is commiserating.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Timely Encounter

It had been forty-five hours since the Doctor left Donna back on earth. (Put him at about fifty since saying goodbye to Rose in Norway, but it was best not to think about _that_.) In that time, he’d managed to save two planets from total annihilation, rescued an endangered species, and cleaned out the TARDIS’ fridge.

The problem was, he couldn’t stop moving. When he stopped for even a moment, he turned around expecting Rose to be there, warm smile on her face, her hand slipping easily into his. (Stupid, stupid, _stupid_.)

Or he’d think about Jackie and Pete; how the idea of more Tylers on the way was more brilliant than it was appalling. And how Rose would have missed all that, had she stayed. She was with her family. Happy. (He would not—repeat _not_ —picture the way he’d left her devastated.)

The point _was_ , he shouldn’t be thinking about the Tylers at all, and certainly _not_ about Jackie Tyler, a woman who drove him around the bend.

Right, then. New Rules:

-No more families. ( _Well_ , that had always been a central rule, of course, but it somehow went and got lost with Rose.)

-Don’t believe companions when they say forever.

He was a Time Lord. _The_ Time Lord, point of fact. And he had… worlds to save, people to free, entire species to rescue. Time Lords had better things to do than mope around their TARDIS and peer mournfully into a room whose owner was never coming back.

Like, for example, take the TARDIS to the nearest pub and get completely sloshed.

Besides, it had been ages since he’d had a chance to take in some local colour. Local culture, small back room pubs, that’s where the _real_ stuff happened.

***

It had been eight years since Unification Day. And like every year, Mal planned to reflect on the occasion with a quiet drink.

True, crew was trying to make it into some sort of big deal, but it wasn’t. Just a small way to remember, was all.

Inara tried to convince him he had better things to do than get drunk and mope. Mal responded that he most certainly did _not_ mope. He was just… marking a day. With a drink. And if he could plant his fist in someone’s face—hey, that’d just be the bonus.

Thing was, seemed like life was finally starting to go right. Alliance was too busy trying to keep a lid on the Miranda story to bother with the Tams. He and Inara kept finding reasons to spend time together that didn’t involve petty arguing. They’d even managed to find a few paying jobs.

Yep. Life weren’t half bad.

Made him all… jumpy. Seemed like trouble had an uncanny knack for catching up to him. Bound to be a matter of time.

Still, U-day was the closest thing he got to a ritual. Didn’t seem right not having Zoe there, of course, but ever since Wash… seemed best not to mention it at all.

***

The Doctor dug around in his pockets for money, holding up any currency he could find. The bartender yawned and shook his head, scratching at an unshaven chin.

“The _last_ time I had a drink, I was in France,” the Doctor said, stalling for time. “Early 18th century. Rode a horse through a time window, you know. Not while I was drinking, mind. Probably… not a good thing to do if you’re drunk. Well, not so smart at the best of times, really, but there was this clock… thing.”

He was rewarded with a blank stare.

Honestly, who didn’t want to know about 18th century France?

Finally, he held up some credits the bartender found acceptable. “Thank you,” he said, slapping them on the table. “Never had to work so hard for a drink in my life.”

He blinked around him. Nice, dusty… back moon pub. A bit quiet, maybe. Now, if he could only figure out what year it was…

***

Mal’s drink tasted like it had been brewed in someone’s Rim moon cellar. Still, he wasn’t in the mood to be picky. Could be worse. Could’ve brought Jayne along.

“Um, sorry—hello—”

He looked up, and the speaker gave a small wave and then scratched at his ear.

“—could you tell me what the date is?”

He had a funny sort of accent. Like Badger’s, only thicker. Mal raised his eyebrows, eyes traveling from the man’s disarming grin, to the drink in his hand, to the brown overcoat he was wearing.

“That supposed to be a joke?” Mal said. He jerked a finger in his direction. “You fight in the war?”

The man blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“It being U-Day and all, brown ain’t exactly the most subtle thing to be wearing.”

“U-Day?” repeated the man, with real surprise. “U-Day—Unification Day—late 2500s?”

“That’s the one,” Mal said. “Might want to think about cutting back on the drinking.”

“Right,” said the man vaguely. He gestured to the seat across from him. “Mind if I…?”

He slid in without waiting for an answer. He took a sip of brew and then shuddered. “Blimey, that’s horrible.”

Mal shrugged. “Won’t find much better, this far out from the Core. Nice coat.”

The man coughed a few times on his drink, eyes watering. “Could say the same to you,” he croaked. He waved his hand in front of his face and said in a normal voice, “I take it you were in the war. And if I know my history—and I usually do—I’d _say_ you were a Browncoat.”

“Very deductive,” Mal said. “And you’re what? Just a tourist passing through?”

“Something like that,” said the stranger. “Well, can’t say my TARDIS doesn’t have a sense of humour. Figures she’d drop me off here.”

Mal almost asked what a “Tardis” was, and then thought better of it. _Ai ya_ , what sort of person didn’t even know what year it was?

“And why’s that?” he said.

The man regarded him for a moment. “I was in a war,” he said carefully. “A different war. And… I lost.”

“Huh,” Mal said. “Don’t sound so different to me.”

“ _Well_ …” began the man, but he only trailed off, eyes staring pensively into his empty drink glass.

Mal sighed. “Sensin’ it was a mite different. How about another round? We’ll call this one on me.” He signaled at the bartender. “I’m Captain Malcolm Reynolds. And you are?”

***

The Doctor opened his mouth to answer and then snapped it shut, hesitating. Humans. Never could accept that it was just the Doctor. And frankly, he didn’t feel up to another round of “Doctor who?”/ “Just the Doctor.”

“John Smith,” he said hastily.

Captain Reynolds’ mouth twitched, clearly not believing him for a moment.

U-Day—made sense. Explained the heavy silence and why everyone looked about ready to start pounding on each other. He’d always been rubbish in a fistfight. Well, most fights. Of course, he _was_ the smartest person in the room. No power like knowledge and all that. And since this seemed like the sort of lot who made a habit out of throwing punches, he might finally be able to put that saying to the test.

The drinks came. The Captain slid over one of the glasses and said, “So, Smith, you on your own?”

The Doctor straightened. _Don’t think about Rose, don’t think about Rose…_

“Well—I… there was…” He trailed off and resisted the urge to smack his forehead on the table. _Yes_ , he was alone. Had been since the Time War. Rose had just been… one of many, many companions.

He settled for the old mantra instead. “I don’t need anyone.”

“I’m sure of that,” said Captain Reynolds easily. “You look… exactly like the sort’a man who always travels alone. Not at all like someone’s kicked you and ran off with your puppy dog.”

The Doctor tried to muster up some sort of irritated look, but couldn’t quite manage it. It must have been the alcohol. That would explain loads of things. Like why the world was all fuzzy along the edges. And why he was still sitting and commiserating with an ex-Browncoat. It was… unlike him. Interesting, that.

Of course, the alternative was returning to an empty TARDIS.

“Rose, her name was,” he managed. It was getting easier to say. Sometimes. Since Donna. “We… traveled together.”

***

There was obvious grief in the man’s eyes, and Mal felt a stirring of pity. “What happened?”

“Oh,” said Smith, pulling himself together. “There was—alternate universe. But she’s… she’s happy. With her family. And Mickey—her boyfriend, Mickey. Though not her boyfriend anymore, is he? Thanks to m—” He stopped, and looked down at the table. “Used a supernova to say good-bye. I’ve never… but I wanted to tell her, just tell her… well, went and cocked that up good and well.”

“Huh,” Mal managed. He searched around for something to say other than: _You’re completely mad._ Finally, he settled on, “Yeah. Reckon we’ve all been there.”

Smith nodded sadly, and then knocked back his drink. He made a face, but otherwise choked back his cough.

“Seems to me,” he said, wiping his mouth in obvious distaste. “Captain of his own spaceship would have better things to do than feel sorry for himself in a pub. Must have a crew. People to look out for.” He paused and added quietly, “Makes sense for me. I haven’t got anyone. But you—”

Mal held up a hand to stop him. “Don’t see how it’s any of your business.”

“Ahh, right,” said Smith. “Next round on me, then?”

***

It took three more rounds, but Captain Reynolds eventually proved himself more than willing to open himself up.

“Then they jus’ left us down there—like we was rats, left there to die off, one by one,” he slurred. “Watched my men die off one by one, starvin’ and dyin’ in their own filth while the Alliance was celebratin.’ Anyway—” the Captain knocked back a shot. “Was a long time ago.”

“That… explains all the drinking,” the Doctor said. “It’s obviously something you’re not dwelling on at all, eh?”

Instead of answering, Reynolds pointed at their empty drinks. “We’re almost outta brew. Whose turn are we on?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” mumbled the Doctor. “Probably couldn’t even calculate the square root of 9, 243. And that doesn’t happen very often.”

The Captain signaled for more. “Gotta say, Smith. I’m impressed. Man your size, reckoned for sure you’d’ve been out by the third round.”

“Oh… well, I’ve got… special blood,” the Doctor managed. “And what do you mean, ‘man of my size?’ What’s wrong with my size?”

“Just… a mite on the wiry side—”

“Oi!” said the Doctor.

“And you’ve got—hell, sideburns?”

“I like my sideburns!”

“Fine,” said the Captain. “But it don’t exactly strike fear into a man’s heart, Mr. John Smith.”

***

Mal studied him, wondering if he’d gone and made the wrong assumptions about Smith. There was no denying it, there was something… off about the man. Something he wasn’t saying. What _war_ had he fought in? There’d been a few minor incidents since the Unification War, but nothing on the level the man was implying.

Smith still looked sulky about his side-burns, so Mal cleared his throat.

“Not to mention,” he drawled. “That suit of yours ain’t something your likely to see out on the Rim. You ain’t Alliance by any chance, are you?”

“What?!” said Smith. “God, no.”

Mal watched him suspiciously and Smith sighed.

“I am not Alliance,” he repeated. He met Mal’s eyes. “Do you believe me?”

Mal sighed, and knocked back another drink. Against his better judgment, he gave a terse, “Yes.”

Getting drunk on U-Day—fine. Spilling his life’s secrets to a complete stranger—it just wasn’t right.

Smith leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Those men in your platoon, the ones you lost—they were all volunteers?”

“Yup,” said Mal. He tried to keep his voice nonchalant and knew he failed. “All of us, young—stupid, thinkin’ we had a shot at something like the Alliance.”

“Fighting for what you believe in,” said Smith. “That’s nothing to be ashamed of, Captain. Even if you did lose. I’d imagine, given the chance, you wouldn’t go back in time and make a different choice.”

Mal flashed to those first few minutes after he realized they weren’t coming. _Angels_ , he’d said. Angels that left them to die.

“Yeah,” he said. “Suppose not.”

Smith’s gaze intimated that he knew what Mal was thinking. “Still, you have to live with the memories the rest of your life. That’s never going away.”

“Sounds like you’re speakin’ from experience,” said Mal, swallowing hard. “Ain’t you a mite young for that sort of advice?”

***

“I’m… older than I look,” the Doctor said. “Trust me.”

The floor tilted in an unnerving way, and the Doctor pressed his fingers to his eyes, reminding himself to breathe and to, perhaps, _not_ upchuck the entire contents of his stomach all over the floor.

“If I had to wager a guess,” started Captain Reynolds. “I’d say you ain’t from around here, Smith.”

The Doctor lifted his head, swallowing deeply. “Oh, I’m… sort of from everywhere.”

“Uh huh,” said Reynolds. “Right, and you… fought in some big war I don’t got a memory of. Just… ain’t possible. Ain’t no way you’re any older’n me. Seen a lot of things, Smith. Reavers at the top of that list. Seems to me like there’s something you’re hiding. ”

“Alright,” said the Doctor. “I’m 945 and I travel around in a time machine called the TARDIS. Got here mostly by accident. Honestly, who in their right mind would choose to come _here_? And I _did_ fight in a war. The Time War.”

Reynolds stared at him, drink frozen a few inches above the table. Finally, he shook his head and cracked a smile. “Good one.” He knocked back his drink. “But, fine. This… Time War. How many did you lose?”

“Everyone,” said the Doctor.

The Captain paused; drink halfway to his mouth. “What?”

“Everyone except me,” said the Doctor. “My entire planet’s gone. Destroyed.”

It didn’t take long for the Captain to catch his implication. He leaned back, wrists resting on the table and shook his head. “Was it worth it?”

“I don’t know,” said the Doctor. He rubbed his eyes, remembering burnt orange sky, twin suns and citadels. “I thought it was, but…”

If he could only believe the Daleks were really gone this time. Then it could all _mean_ something. The Time War. Gallifrey. Rose. But they _always_ managed to survive.

Captain Reynolds nodded in understanding. “Yeah.”

They signaled for another round of drinks.

***  



End file.
